


A Long Neglected Conversation

by Cheekybeak



Series: Darkness [13]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-03-07 15:19:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13437591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheekybeak/pseuds/Cheekybeak
Summary: An outtake from the story “Even the Birds are Chained to the Sky”An off stage conversation between Legolas and Elrohir, rehashing some trauma from long ago.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NelyafinweFeanorion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NelyafinweFeanorion/gifts).



> For NelyafinweFeanorion. Good luck for Monday! 
> 
> I know you like these two so here is a short outtake from “Even the Birds Are Chained to the Sky”  
> You havent actually seen the scene that leads to this discussion yet but I am sure you know the pair of them well enough to imagine how it goes. 
> 
> To everyone else, this will probably only make sense if you have read “Fire Dancing on Our Souls” Especially the first 3 chapters.

  
“We need to speak about the Dead Marshes.”

He sits, leaning against the wall, almost buried amongst the greenery I have adorned his room with. Plants which send tendrils this way and that. He loves them and I love him, so I try to mask the cold hardness of the stone for him.

He looks tired.

“No, Elrohir.”

It is the reply I expected but I have come prepared.

“Yes.” I will not give way on this.

“No. There is nothing to say. Please do not do this. We have only just found our way back to each other. _Please_ , Elrohir.”

He rarely begs—it is not in his nature—and it almost undoes my reserve. Almost . . . But not quite.

“This shall do us harm if we do not speak on it, Legolas. It is a pain undealt with and now I know that I cannot ignore it.”

“It is no pain.” He frowns in frustration. “It is nothing. I was angry when I mentioned it. I wanted to hurt you. It is all in the past and it does not bother me.”

I sigh then for he is such a stubborn fool, and I sink down to sit beside him. He is all tension, he thrums with it.

“This is _me_ you are speaking to, Legolas. You cannot fool me.”

And he is silent. The minutes tick by and he says nothing, but I give him this, this time to accept the inevitable. Eventually he will see sense.

“I do not want to speak of it, Elrohir. I do not want to.”

“I know that. To be honest I do not want to either, but we must. How many years is it now and we have never spoken of this?”

He matches my sigh and tilts his head back to rest against the wall.

“Tell me about it, Legolas. Tell me how it was for you. You said you sat broken in front of me while I trampled your heart in the mud. Tell me!” He turns his head to avoid my eyes, so I touch him.

My brother used to do this. I learnt it from him—my small brother, my mannish brother. Legolas is a sprite. His mind flys to the wind yet he has walls as high as the sky Earendil sails across when he wishes. When Aragorn needed to still him, when he needed to breach those walls he would touch him, softly, gently—it worked like magic and it works now. When my hand falls on his shoulder he begins to speak.

“There were so many of them,” he says. “ So many, Elrohir. Everywhere I looked. I did not know them but I knew their families, their friends, and they called out to me. _Child of our King_ , they called, _Save us!_ It was so loud.” He buries his head in his arms, covers his ears as if he can still hear them. “And I did not find my Grandfather,” he adds. “I wanted to, and yet At the same time I did not, for I would have succumbed had he called me.” He lifts his head then, to look up at me. “But you know this. You were there, looking for your own people. You know what it was like. You do not need me to tell you.”

“It was unpleasant,” I admit, “but I do not think it was as bad for me as it was for you. I am sorry . . . I am sorry when you were so distressed I only added to it. I am sorry I left you there.”

“It was my fault,” he replies. “All my fault. I deserved everything, all your scorn, for I did not see you truly, or if I did, I did not want to.”

“No!” I do not want him taking all this blame—all _my_ blame upon himself.

But he is not listening, as Legolas is want to do.

“I could not understand it.” He continues as if I have not spoken at all. “I was so sure . . . So determined it was nothing—what passed between us. Why I thought that—now I look back—I do not know, for I burned for you like no one else. But it had to be nothing. You were so odd. So unlike yourself, after the Black Gate, but no one else noticed and I could not make sense of it. Where was your mocking scorn I had grown so used to? Then you touched me, you wiped away the tears I shed for the Dead, and it all became clear. I was such a fool.”

“Like this?” I say and I stroke a thumb across his cheek slowly, for he weeps still for those Dead in the marshes so far away.

“Like that . . . I am sorry, Elrohir, that I hurt you. I did not mean to but I did. I deserved your anger. I deserved to be left behind.”

But he never deserved that. It hurts my heart to remember him now, as he was, sitting tear-stained and grief-stricken in the mud as I walked away.

I take his face in my hands so I can be sure he looks at me.

I watched you all the way from Rohan,” I tell him. “I could not take my eyes off you.”

He laughs. I love his laugh.

“You scorned me all the way from Rohan! You remember it wrongly, Elrohir. You could not stand the sight of me.”

“No. I could not take my eyes off you, your light . . . You shine so brightly, Legolas. You have no idea.”

He never has known how that dancing light of his affects those of us around him.

“I tried to deny it. I tried to push you away, but it was a losing battle. I never despised you, and that night . . . Before the Black Gate . . . I could not stay away. But I was not clear. Our miscommunication was as much my fault as yours. And I was cruel upon the Dead Marshes. I am sorry.” I pull him towards me, wrap my arms tight around him as I wanted to do after the Battle of the Black Gate when he pushed me away so determinedly, when I was so alight with hope. . . . Before he crushed it all and I hurt him— and continued to hurt him. “I am sorry. . . I am so sorry.”

And he weeps. His tears wet my shirt and burn my skin. Tears for the dead in the Marshes I did not help him grieve, tears for the words I threw like arrows at him over so many years—so long ago. I can remember the insults, the bitterness I rained upon him.

Why have we not spoken of this before? We are cowards, both of us.  
And in our fear we hurt each other.

Had he not broken his silence in anger I would never know he carried this hurt still, deep in his heart.

Perhaps he did not know he still carried it himself?

“We are both fools,” I tell him. “But I love you despite your foolishness! You are my heart, my wild silvan heart.”

“You are my sanctuary.” He says, head laid upon my chest. “My shelter from the never-ending storms. My only safe place.”

I have not always been a safe place for him. Sometimes I have been the very cause of the storms themselves.

I wish it were not so.  
But I cannot change it.

 

I can only make it right.

“Do you understand you were wrong?” I say. “What you saw was bitterness, yes, but never hate. It is important to me you know that I loved you always. from when I first saw you in Imladris I loved you. You had a fight with the dwarf in the middle of the Great Hall. So fiery, so strange. I was entranced from that moment.”

“Then I have trapped you also,” he answers me sadly.

“Trapped? It is no trap Legolas.”

“Won your love under false pretences. I am sorry for that Elrohir.”

“No.” I lift up his head from my chest, tilt him back against the wall so I can see him. “What do you mean by that? There is nothing false about it”

“It is all false.” Does he mean he does not love me? I do not think that is true. “ _I_ am false, Elrohir, to everyone. I am not the son my father raised, not the one he needs. I am no longer the Legolas, Maewen fell in love with. That boy is gone, and now I am not that Legolas from Imladris either. If you fell in love with him, you have lost him. I am someone else.”

I know he struggles. I know he carries damage, has carried it for years. Now I know it is deeper . . . more extensive than I thought. It seems tonight I can see that damage written clear upon his face. Every minute he has borne it sits there in the open for me to see.

“You are not false to _me,_ nor to Maewen neither. As for your father,” I cannot help but sigh then for his statement is so ridiculous, “you are exactly the son he needs. He would have no other. Tell me you truly do not think this!”

He draws up his knees, and drops his chin to rest upon them. He is curled up tight against the world and one hand fiddles with his tunic, twisting it in his fingers back and forth as he speaks.

“It is nice of you to deny it, Elrohir, but as hard as I try to be myself, to be the one you loved before, I am doomed to fail—I always fail.”

He has told me in a rare moment of openness, how challenging it is to be him and how hard he fights to be the person he used to be. I have to wonder if he should fight less for that because he is right. He will never achieve it.

I grasp that hand, that sign of his anxiety—the hand that twists and turns—and hold it still. I thread my fingers through his in a grip that will not be broken.

“The Legolas who entranced me fought with a dwarf in the midst of a place full of those who who judged him. He was not cowed. He stood up to the great Glorfindel to defend his family. So much fire and strength, that fire and strength is still there.

“The Legolas I met upon the plains of Rohan followed my brother to the sea even though he thought it meant his death, he did not falter. Full of loyalty and steadfastness was he. That loyalty, that steadfastness is still there.

“The Legolas I saw upon the Pelennor fought bravely though he had recently been struck down to his knees by the sea-longing. He would not leave the battlefield, he refused to give in. That stubbornness, that courage, is still there. There is nothing false about you, Legolas. Yes, you have changed but so have I. We all change, but the Legolas I love is _still_ the same. Your light that entrances me is still the same. You do not fail.

“Allow yourself to be who you are meant to be _now_. That is who I love. I think Maewen would say the same. Perhaps you should ask her.”

“I cannot ask her.” His voice is little more than a whisper. “I am afraid she will agree. I am afraid she will say, yes, I am no longer the Legolas she loved.”

“I tell you she will not.”

He is silent yet he clings to my hand with a death grip. If he will not fight for himself then I must fight for him. He needs to do this, to clear these worries from his head, to stop trying to be someone he can no longer be for our sakes and rejoice instead in who it is he is now.

“I do not think Maewen is the same girl you fell in love with either, but do you love her any less?” He does not have to answer that for me to know he does, he does deeply.

“I have never done this before, Legolas but I feel I must, for you need to speak with her about this. You need to give her the chance to answer you herself. I do not interfere between the two of you, it is not my place but this time I will. I give you two weeks—two weeks when you return to speak to her, then I will write to her and tell her myself this is what floats its way through your brain. Know that I will write regardless, no matter what you tell me you have done. Either she hears it from you or she will hear it from me. I understand you fear her answer but you need not.”

I hold my breath. This could go very badly. He resents any attempts Maewen and I make to work together to keep him safe.

“That is not _fair_ ,” he says in the end. I would never write to Maewen telling her what goes on in _your_ head.”

And I cannot help but laugh.

“Why would you! I am not involved with Maewen. I am not in love with her. A bad example, Legolas. Try harder!”

And despite himself he chuckles too. But then he lifts head to stare at me and his eyes flash with a challenge. That fiery spirit dances within him. How can he say he is not what he was?

“Then I will write to Elladan,” he says his chin stuck out determinedly. He looks so like his small son then—that stubborn, wilful child. “I will write to Elladan and tell him of your healing talent. The talent I _know_ you have. I will tell him Olorin’s thoughts on it. I will tell him to ensure you get training, if you do not tell him yourself.”

And I laugh louder.

“Too late, Legolas! He already knows. Your boy told him!”

The surprise that splits his face is so amusing.

“Your boy who loves you has already done your dirty work for you.” I am triumphant. It is not often I best Legolas.

“My boy . . .” He is astonished but then he drops his head. “He is so courageous, never bowed, and I fail him also. He is the worst of it.”

“You will never fail him, Legolas. You fight so hard because of him and he knows that. But you need to speak with him about Arda, about the accident, about why you are the way you are. He has questions and he will not give up. He will search until he gets his answers. He should hear them from you.”

“So many people you want me to speak to, Elrohir. Where will I find the time? I suppose you will write Estel a letter too if I do not get around to it?”

Sometimes he can be so childish; and I _know_ that is nothing new.

“Of course not! It is your story to tell, yours and Maewen’s and I have told him so already. I will not tell him my part in it until you are done.”

“Sometimes I think I will never be done, Elrohir.” There is dejection in his voice. “This fight will never be over.”

“I think you are fighting the wrong fight.” 

“You would have me give up?” He cries in horror. “You would have me not try at all?”

“Not give up, never that. But do not fight to be someone you were in the past. Someone you will not recapture. Let him go . . . That Legolas. Trust me when I say he is not that far away anyway. Fight to be the best you can be now; this new you. Fight for that Legolas. And you need reinforcements. Aragorn could not win the war against Sauron without us at his back. Let us in, Maewen and I, the others. Let Laerion take the burden of paperwork you cannot do. It will give you time with your boy and then put your energy into writing longer letters to me so you continue your improvement with the written word. When you wake up to find your mind jumbled and chaotic _tell_ me so I can help you; tell Maewen!”

“The thing is, Elrohir. When I wake up to a day like that I cannot find the words to tell you.”

“Then tell me that! And I will know. Then on a better day when the words return you can explain the details.”

“You do not miss the Legolas I was.” He asks quietly.

“I love the Legolas you _are_ ,” I say. “We all do.”

We sit then, he and I, against the wall, amongst the leaves. It is the perfect place for us. He can gain sustinence from the greenery he loves. I can feel the thrum of the stone, with it’s reassuring cool against my back.

We are different and yet the same, he and I. A world apart and yet bound together. He understands me like no other . . . Even my brother in some things, yet he is an enigma also. A strange silvan beauty. Just as he was when he arrived in Imladris.

But he is also stronger, more open, wiser. He sees only his damage but he is, in fact, a better version of himself.

And I am only just beginning to realise; knowing him, being with him, loving him,

makes me a better version of myself too.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another out take from “Even the Birds are Chained to the Sky” I have put this here as the conversation is closely linked to Elrohir and Legolas’ in the previous chapter. 
> 
> References to the story “Light of a Thousand Stars” here and it will probably make more sense if you know what happens in that.

  
**Maewen**

My boy—who I have been apart from for too long—is in bed. He even sleeps; I know, I have checked. Slow even breaths, he is angelic as he lies there, his small sister beside him. They have missed each other. I run a hand across his hair, gently, softly. I do not want to wake him but cannot resist a touch . . . just one. My sweet boy.

When I emerge from his room I am alone. Legolas is not there.

He has not gone far though, I can hear him and he sings. It fills my heart with joy to hear his lilting voice drift up from the ground below. It has been too long since I have heard him sing, far too long.

And so I am eager to join him.

He sits on the grass beneath our tree, head tilted to the stars and when I drop to sit beside him his melody stops.

“Do not stop,” I say. “It is beautiful.”

“Average at best.” He shrugs his shoulders. Legolas has never been good at seeing his talents, apart from the bow. He knows he is good at that.

“Not so.” I correct him. “The most beautiful song in the world to _my_ ears.”

I watch quietly, with apprehension as he reaches out and plucks a blade of grass from beside him, spinning it between his fingers, flicking it back and forth. This is not a good sign. Something bothers him.

“Estel is sleeping.” I say. “Your travels have worn him out!”

“He has missed his home.” Legolas does not meet my eyes, instead he watches the grass he spins, back and forth, back and forth.

“Of course, but he has had such adventures too.” Elrohir has worked miracles, far more than I ever anticipated for our boy. Our precious boy, who terrifies Legolas with his very existence. Around every corner he sees a danger lurking to take his child from him. He fights so hard to keep him safe and Estel fights just as hard to be free.

Now he has returned with wild tales of sleeping under the stars with Elladan—not his father, adventuring with Elrohir and most astonishing of all, learning the sword.

I would never have dreamed Legolas would allow Estel to do that.

“I let you down,” Legolas says in reply and it is so far from the truth he could not be more wrong. “I failed to keep him safe for you. I am so sorry, Maewen.”

He speaks, of course, of Estel’s tumble down the cliff. Oh my heart was in my mouth when I first read the jumbled, fearful letter Legolas sent me after that. At first for Estel—but then mainly for my love, for I could imagine his terror—and tucked inside his letter was a calm reassurance from Elladan that my son was safe. Bruised and battered, but safe.

It worried me it was Legolas and not Elrohir who wrote to me then for usually Elrohir will take over with his quiet, calm control and write long careful letters when wild emotions mean Legolas struggles. He has always done that . . . Right from the beginning. Why not now? Where _was_ he?

Still all must be well between them, for Legolas sings to the stars, and he arrived back with Laerion in tow, laughing and joking as they used to in the Greenwood. Something I never thought I would see again. But I still wonder why Elrohir did not write me that letter . . . Yet I cannot ask. It is not for me to know what happens between them unless Legolas chooses to tell me. I have long ago learnt my lesson from prying where I should not.

“You did not let me down.” I am firm in my reply. “If anyone let _us_ down it was Estel in his disobedience and he has paid a high price.” I will not let him blame himself for that.

“How is Elrohir?” I ask to divert him from our unruly son, but also because it is as far as I dare go to satisfy my curiosity, this casual question.

I do not get the answer I expect.

“He wishes me to ask you something.”

“He does?” I am surprised. As open as I am, as much as I encourage Elrohir to be a part of our lives here, as often as I invite him in, he stubbornly refuses. He keeps himself seperate and insists that is how things must be. Sending me a message through Legolas is not how he is.

“Indeed.” The speed with which Legolas twirls that piece of grass intensifies. “And he has informed me he will write to you telling all if I do not.”

I begin to feel uneasy. What is this?

“Telling all? What could there be to tell, Legolas?”

I reach out then and capture those fidgeting fingers between my hands, holding them still.

“There is nothing Elrohir could tell me that would bother me.” I hope this is true. “What is it my love?”

He sighs, and slowly curls his fingers softly around my hands until they are entwined together.

“Do you miss who I was?” He asks, “Does it disappoint you? That the Legolas you fell in love with is no longer? That you are stuck with me?”

I am confused. Is this Elrohir’s question or some strange thought from _his_ heart? Why would Elrohir ask this?

“Do you doubt my love?” I cry. “Does Elrohir? Has he been suggesting I wish for something other than you? Why would he do that?”

“No!” Legolas tosses his head in frustration, his hands tighten around mine. “I cannot find the words. I say it all wrong as I always do. Surely you get sick of this. Surely you wish for the boy I was. The Legolas who could speak a sentence and say what he wanted. The one who did not fall apart into chaos at the slightest problem? How can you not regret?”

This place is not good for Legolas, Valinor . . . It poisons him. In Arda it was better. There he accepted his damage with a shrug and a smile. Oh he raged against it at times, it frustrated him, but mostly he did not mind it. For Arda was marred as well. It was full of imperfections. His friends there were mortals, imperfect themselves. Arda fit him like a glove.

But here . . . Outside our woods there lies a perfect world. Not so much as a blade of grass out of place. Everything as it should be. A world full of elegant Noldor and Vanya who glide through life smug in their perfection. Outside our wood, where our people accept him utterly, lies a world where Legolas is glaringly obvious in his imperfectness, an oddity, a damaged elf . . . Strange . . . And he is miserable in it. Every iota of damage he feels as an agony here. I hate it. It was the sealonging which drove us here, the sealonging and his grief for Elessar. Now the sealonging is vanquished I would gather him up and whisk him back to imperfect Arda if only I could.

“Has Elrohir taken you to Tirion?” I ask softly, for it is there he feels it most. It’s pristineness only serves to magnify what he is in his mind. Tirion . . . I despise it, and those Noldor who live there and pour their onerous demands upon him.

“No. Estel’s attempts at flying left us no time for that. This is not about Tirion.” He hangs his head. “Elrohir tells me I should fight no longer. He tells me I am what I am. He says I should enjoy that, not rail against it. I say I fight to be what I was for you. Because you deserve the man you fell in love with . . . Not the one you are left with. He told me to ask you if that was true.”

I do not know what has begun them speaking on this but I am horrified.

“Elrohir is right!” I gasp. “I wish for nothing but the love I have. I regret _nothing_.”

“You cannot regret nothing.”

“I do. It is you I love, Legolas. _You_. As you are now, not what you were. I love every part of you and I would not go back. Not for a second.” He is disbelieving as he looks at me and so I try taking a different path.

“Tell me . . .” His hair falls across his face and I brush it back so I can see his eyes, those beautiful eyes. I will not let him hide. “Do you remember the girl I was? The sulky, selfish girlchild who hid from your friends, who argued when you left on the quest that might well have claimed your life, who resented every change in her world and blamed it on you? Do you remember her? Do you wish for her return or do you love the woman you have now?”

Finally he smiles.

“I do remember her. She had her good points too but I prefer you.”

“And I prefer you. The Leader of our people, the father of my children, the man I love. Not the foolish, flighty, but endlessly amusing boy I fell for . . . But the courageous man I have. Elrohir is right. Please listen to him. You do not have to fight against who you are now for me.”

“I do not want to accept what I have been left with,” he sighs.

“But the rest of us love him . . . who you are. You are better, Legolas. Your trials have made you a better man.”

I will not let this rest now I know he has been battling for my sake, but I think I will get no further tonight. He is a most stubborn creature and always has been. That has not changed. Over time I have learned the key to Legolas is to stop talking and give him the space to think on things . . . To find his own way there. We will revisit this later but for now there is just one more thing that worries me.

“Is this what the strawberries were for? That you doubt my love? You do not need to prove anything to me, Legolas.” It was such a strange gesture, so unlike him. I loved it, it made my heart sing, but now I wonder why.

He shakes his head.

“That was for Estel.”

“Estel?” A strange answer.

“I need to show him how much I love you. He needs to see it.” He talks in riddles now.

“You do show me! Every day you do.” And he does. A smile here, a gentle touch there, I do not doubt how much he loves me.

“Estel does not see it. He asked me if I still loved you. He asked if I even wished to be here with you. He does not see the small things. He only hears the harshness of our words.”

It takes my breath away.

“He said that?”

“So I will show him.” Legolas pats my hand softly to reassure. “It is no trouble to care for you it is a joy, but I need to make sure he sees.”

My poor small boy. I did not know these were the thoughts that churned through his mind. It brings tears to my eyes.

“We both will,” I manage to say in the end. “He has two parents. We both have bitter words. We both can stop to think before we use them. I am so sorry, Legolas,”

It tears my heart apart to think my child has worried on this. We have been so careless. Legolas has an excuse for his fea is damaged. I have none.

The tears spill down to wet my cheeks. I cannot stop them.

But he does.

He wraps his arms around me. He kisses them away as they fall.

“I know it hurts.” He murmers, “I know. We will fix it.”

As always he mends me.

So we sit, in the starlight, bathed in its beauty, and it turns my mind to the way things were, in the Greenwood, years ago when we were young.

“It is good to see you with Laerion.”

And his smile widens.

“It is good to be with him, I cannot tell you how much. I have missed him, and now I discover he has been here all along. I told him I needed him and he was there . . . As he always was.”

How long have I pleaded with him to open himself up to his brother. It is a weight off my shoulders that he finally has. But his next sentence leaves me speechless. Legolas is endlessly surprising.

“I have been speaking to my mother.”

“Your mother?”

Am I hearing him correctly?

“My mother.” He gives me his lopsided grin and his eyes dance. He enjoys my astonishment. “I discovered we have more in common than I realised. She has hurt me, I have hurt her. There is much to forgive between us and some of it lays at my feet. I have missed her too.”

“Oh Legolas!”

A rush of joy overtakes me for this will help him beyond measure. I have wished for this since we arrived on these forsaken shores.

“I know it took me a while,” he laughs . . . He laughs at me and my surprise. “I am glad I can still surprise you! There is much more talking for Mother and I to do. I need to understand her, for I must say I still do not.”

“Wait here!” I know just what he needs. I have been waiting . . Waiting so long for this, keeping it close, hoping one day . . One day he would be ready.

“Maewen!” He cries after me, as I am on my feet and scrambling up our tree.

“I will be back!”

I go straight to it, hidden in our room, tucked away in my secret place. I have carried this with me for many years, always hoping. It is with care I lift it out for it is fragile now, and my heart thuds. I never really allowed myself to believe this day would come, even as I hoped.

He looks at me in confusion when I drop back down next to him and place the envelope in his lap.

“What is this?”

“Read it, Legolas.”

Gently he opens it, cautiously, as if it will bite him. Slowly he pulls out the pieces that lie within.

“They are all there.” I tell him. “A bit of a puzzle but it is readable.”

He lays them out in order, piece by piece and lifts his head to stare at me.

“My mothers letter.” His eyes are wide. He is not the only one who can still have surprises! “How long have you had this?”

“Since she left. Since you tore it into pieces and threw it away. I went down the next morning and found every piece. I knew one day you would need it . . At least I hoped . . . I have not read it, Legolas but there may be answers here. Things you can ask her, a glimpse into her mind.”

“You have kept it all this time.”

“All this time.”

“I do not deserve you .” He whispers.

And I lean myself against him, I soak up his warmth, I bathe him in my love.

“You deserve everything I can give and more, Legolas.”

And in that moment our love seems as perfect as this land we find ourselves in.

 

Together . . . Amongst the trees, beneath the stars, our children asleep above us . . .

Together always . . .

Perfect. 


End file.
